


Lingering Ghosts

by Anonymous



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Poor quality writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington has a conversation with an old friend, and makes a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lingering Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> So, much thanks to KnightlyWordsmith of DeviantArt for being my canary in a coal-mine with this! They're awesome!
> 
> This was (kinda sorta) prompted by Xephiliomia of DeviantArt, who wanted a Wash/Maine friendship one-shot, and shall instead get a Wash/York/North/?/maybe-eventually-Maine friendship three-shot. Yeah.

Washington didn’t immediately realize that it was a dream.  
  
Well, maybe he did; it didn’t seem to be all that pressing, though, so he let the knowledge fade into the background. Besides, it was such a novelty for his dreams to not feature blood and fire and the death of his friends, so he let it continue on without kicking up a fuss.  
  
Until he heard the sound of a polite cough.  
  
So far, there had been complete silence in what he thought might have been a nightclub at some point. It was bright, though, and clean—far cleaner than any club or bar he’d ever been to in the past—and empty. It was completely devoid of life. Completely devoid of anything, actually. No people, no furniture, not so much as ambient noise.  
  
It was quite relaxing, actually. More than calm, it was serene.  
  
And then that sudden cough had come from behind him, so Washington turned… and felt like legitimately face-palming.  
  
There, standing behind a bar made out of a huge slab of obsidian, was an extremely familiar infiltration-specialist wearing classic blue-jeans, a Grifball T-shirt, and a clean white dishtowel on his shoulder.  
  
He looked good, Washington was relieved to note; not angry or accusatory or broken and bleeding, as the ex-Freelancer’s dreams tended to depict his old teammates. No, York was just leaning casually on the bar with his _I’m innocent, why are you looking at me like that?_ -smile cranked up to full blast.  
  
Washington wouldn’t even notice until much later that his old teammate’s left eye was whole and unblemished.  
  
A million thoughts and questions flashed through his mind at seeing his friend, but when the former-Freelancer opened his mouth to speak, words of friendship and apology and confirmation of good health weren’t what came out.  
  
“York, you’re supposed to be dea—” Washington’s flat monotone began, but he cut himself off and gave a dry chuckle. “You know, after _everything_ I’ve been through, I have _really_ got to learn to stop saying that.”  
  
York’s mouth quirked up and his warm brown eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth. “Yeah, no kidding,” the tan Freelancer answered with an easy laugh. “’Specially with Carolina cropping up after all this time, shouldn’t be much of a surprise that I’m right behind her. Bet _that_ was a real curveball for you, huh?”  
  
Pulling up a stool made of dark wood that hadn’t been there a moment ago, Washington sighed and nodded his head wearily. His companion pulled the dishtowel off his shoulder and began wiping down two perfectly clean glasses before taking a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar and filling the glasses with three fingers of amber liquid, all the while making sympathetic noises. York pushed one of the glasses toward the blonde man and took a sip of his own before actually speaking again.  
  
“You’re right, though,” he said off-handedly, and rolled his eyes at Washington’s quizzical look before elaborating. “About what I’m s’posed to be.”  
  
The other ex-Freelancer—currently wearing civvies, he now noticed; slacks, a dark grey polo-shirt, and, much to his chagrin, cowboy boots—sipped the whiskey and enjoyed the burn down his throat. He didn’t want to ask, but went for clarification regardless. The soldier in him, he supposed, always needing confirmation of data and orders.  
  
“Dead.”  
  
York gave a single nod, the glow of his nice-‘n-easy state diminishing slightly, but his smile still in place. “Yup, as a doornail,” he answered matter-of-factly.  
  
“Huh” was Washington’s eloquent reply, and both men fell silent and sipped their whisky—Toasted Caramel Black Velvet, he recognized. After some time thinking quietly, he spoke up again. “So… what’s it like?”  
  
York could hear the curiosity burning in his voice and grinned. “Not too bad, Wash. Not too bad,” he replied enthusiastically, leaning forward as he began to relate his experience in earnest. “At first, it was like constant reruns of ‘York’s Greatest Hits’: everything from childhood memories of Little League to meeting Carolina for the first time to running with Texas and Dee on that last mission!”  
  
Wash blinked at the incongruity of someone dead talking about the experience like it was a fun vacation and the events leading up to it were the fun road-trip getting there, but couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s childlike delight.  
  
“But now North and I are right next to each other, so we watch Grifball on the weekends—or whatever passes for the weekends, anyway. And CT’s in a _much_ better mood now that her old boyfriend is around, and it’s nice having another guy around who appreciates the sport, even if he roots for the wrong team…”  
  
He continued on like that, waxing philosophical on the concept of time when you were dead as well as the renegotiating of alliances, though Wash only half-listened. The blonde man perked up a little at the sound of CT and whoever the hell her Innie-boyfriend was (York mentioned his name being Enrique, but that he and North teased him by calling him ‘Rickie’), but was mostly just enjoying the feeling of relaxing with a friend, drinking his whisky-that-was-now-a-Corona and swapping stories.  
  
When there finally came a lull in the conversation—after Wash related everything that had happened to him after the break-in, and York made the appropriate noises of sympathy or awe at the right times—the infiltration specialist spoke again, his voice much more subdued.  
  
“You know, after Wyoming shot me and I woke up in the middle of my 15th birthday party, I was kinda confused. Obviously,” he added with a grin and a sly wink. “It’s not every day you go to sleep and being shot and wake up with Casey Milton’s tongue down your throat.”  
  
Wash rolled his eyes, but snorted hard enough to inhale some of his beer.  
  
“Anyway, it wasn’t very long, though, before I found North. And when I say ‘found’, I don’t mean I tripped over him on the sidewalk or we ran into each other in the grocery store.” York fixed his companion with an oddly serious expression. “I mean I could _feel_ him the second he, you know, _arrived_.”  
  
The younger man couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows in surprise, and just had to ask. “Really? What’s it feel like?”  
  
York mulled it over for a moment, rubbing his hand against the back of his head. “It’s kinda hard to explain,” the tan Freelancer started uncertainly. “It was—it was kinda like this feeling of… of _peace_ and, I dunno, _warmth_ washed over me. And when it did, all I could think was, ‘That’s North!’”  
  
He stopped to take a drink of his still-whisky, and collect his thoughts before continuing.  
  
“So, it took me a while to figure it out, but I eventually found my way over to where he was—fixin’ an old car with his dad when he was, like, seventeen or something,” York said, smiling at the memory. Or, rather, the memory of the memory. “After that, we started lookin’ for others: family, friends, squad-mates, you know.”  
  
And Wash nodded, because he _did_ know.  
  
York suddenly grinned. “Ooh, hey, Wash! Guess where we found Florida! Go on, go on, guess!”  
  
Agent Washington had a feeling that he didn’t really want to know, and just shrugged before taking a swig of Corona. There were some things that a person shouldn’t know about another, and what memories ended up in a person’s specialized after-life was one of them, in the blonde’s opinion.  
  
The former-infiltration specialist seemed a bit disappointed that the other man didn’t guess, but got over it quickly. “Right, so, where was I?”  
  
“ _Not_ telling me something embarrassing about Florida,” Wash answered pointedly, with a hard look at his old comrade that wasn’t quite a glare.  
  
York rolled his eyes, but shrugged in a _Your loss_ kind of way. “Fine, fine. So, we found everyone who was around—except Carolina, which was when I figured out that she wasn’t actually dead. I’ll admit, I was kinda disappointed… For about three seconds until I realized how insane that was. Then I was just grateful as all hel—”  
  
The older man blinked and looked around, alarmed, as he flickered out of existence for a fraction of a second and the bar they were inhabiting began to shake and pieces started to dissolve.  
  
“Ri-i-ight,” he said, eyeing the place nervously. “I better speed things up; the connection was shaky to begin with and, if Errera’s coming apart at the seams, you must be close to waking up.”  
  
Wash just gave him a bewildered look, and York plowed on, glancing around nervously every few seconds.  
  
“Okay, so, what I was gonna eventually be getting at with all this is that we can feel it when somebody we know arrives and it sets off a kind of empathic homing-beacon.”  
  
This confused the blonde man even more, but he didn’t interrupt, as he could suddenly hear muffled voices from far away. They sounded familiar, so he began to concentrate on them, but York snapped his fingers in his face the moment he did.  
  
“Oh, no you don’t!” The tan Freelancer said quickly. “You can wake up in a minute, when I’m done.”  
  
“But—”  
  
York cut him off immediately, though. “Maine’s not here!”  
  
The environment stilled and the voices stopped as Agent Washington focused completely on his old teammate. “What.”  
  
Wash’s companion gave a nervous little laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “C’mon, man,” he said, giving Washington a friendly clap on the shoulder. “After all the shit we’ve _seen_ him go through, you really think falling into some water is what kills the big guy?”  
  
It took a moment for Washington to answer, but when he did, his voice was flat. “… Well, have you ever considered that he’s just—”  
  
His companion cut him off again, this time with an ungentlemanly snort. “Please! If _South_ and _Wyoming_ got in, then Maine definitely did.  
  
“Listen,” York tried again, as the place started shaking again and the voices got louder. “Go with Carolina or don’t. It doesn’t matter, either way. But if you do, just ask for a few days to yourself to do something, and _go find him_.”  
  
Now that threw the younger man for a loop.  
  
“Wait, what? After trying my damnedest to kill him, you want me to go out and find the guy that tried his damnedest to kill me _several_ times? Are you… kidding? Please tell me you’re kidding.”  
  
When Washington realized the voices belonged to Caboose, Tucker, and Carolina, York looked downright panicked.  
  
“Look,” he responded quickly, and his voice had a slight echo. “You’re the closest thing he had to a friend in Freelancer, and Grifball knows he needs it now. Alright, Wash? He _needs_ you. He needs—”  
  
And then York vanished, and Wash could hear Caboose’s voice saying, “I’m sorry, Mr. Washington, but the scary blue lady wouldn’t—”  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The former-Agent Washington of Project Freelancer woke to the sound of a Simulation Trooper in the middle of an apology.  
  
“—sorry, Mr. Washington, but the scary blue lady wouldn’t listen when I told her you told me to tell anyone who tried to wake you up to… um, _not_.”  
  
Washington opened his eyes, and looked from the ceiling to the door where Carolina stood, looking aggravated, and Caboose lurked behind her, looking contrite.  
  
Carolina shifted her feet and glared at Washington when he didn’t speak.  
  
“Well?” The female Freelancer demanded impatiently, after a moment. “Are you with me, or aren’t you?  
  
The blonde man rose from his position on the cot so that he was sitting, and grabbed his helmet from the ground where he had tossed it a few hours previously. Washington could hear York’s words echoing in his head as he put the blue and yellow helmet back on. _He_ needs _you_ …  
  
After a moment, he sighed and stood. “Sure thing, boss. But I’m gonna need a few days first.”  
  
Agent Carolina almost growled in frustration. “And why… is _that_ … _exactly_?” The woman was eventually able to ground out.  
  
“Because I need to find something I’ve lost,” Wash answered as he brushed past his old leader and exited the room.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a sequel-ish thing in the works, but no time-frame. As per the usual. So, for now at least, I'm going to consider this to be done.


End file.
